Swathe
by AllegroCelticBadger
Summary: The ceremony has been performed, in exchange for Raoul's life. And now all that remains is the expectation. Based on the stage show.


_Meh. I don't tend to write stuff like this._

_I was watching Peter Karrie's performance of POTO on Youtube, and I was quite disturbed by his bizarre and unique performance. Half the time I just wanted him to leave his crotch alone. _

_So, that sparked this little spontaneous...thing. _

_Warning – Non-explicit sexual content of a dubious nature. Manipulation and angst. _

_I own nothing._

_._

_._

Swathe

.

.

Raoul was out there, shivering, and Christine had worried if the impress of the rope would leave ugly, richly rounded bruises on his skin. The Phantom possessed a small prison, namely a cavern he carved from chugging rock just below his little lake house, and after her answer...oh god, her _answer..._how powerful and noble it seemed at the time...The Phantom had dragged the Vicomte down to its dank walls, and left him there with a blanket and the rope, still hanging on his neck like a intrepid lover, with the line connected to a small lever never far from the Phantom's hand. In fact, the line was connected to an array of levers, dotted throughout his house, all waiting in silent heed for his call.

She'd heard the mob, furious and chanting, near the lake, so close that the dim rays of their torches scuttled along the rippling waters and shone in the feverish sheen of her eyes. The Phantom...although he had a name, he had told her, but she couldn't bear to use it...had once again become twitchy, thrumming his fingers and rolling on the balls of his feet, murderous stare strapped to the entrance of his domain. The voices had swung around, close, and then, over their heads, and finally, they had drifted off into silence.

It was during this time, that Er-The Phantom once again donned his mask and slicked back the black wig he prized. They were married, in a flurry of some sharply spoken words and a calling to God's witness that was so insincere in its breathless, desperate nature that hearing the words drop from his lips seemed blasphemy in itself. The ring, heavy on her hand, and then he sung, his voice still so sonorous and beautiful that it crept under her skin and sickened her insides. From below, Raoul gave a brief, strangled moan.

The ceremony was complete, certainly. But now all that remained was the expectation.

That silent promise, amplified by the stark whiteness of her dress, the quiver in her chest as his gaze ripped through her. He was suddenly alert, strung with energy, prowling around his abode with the finesse of a starving wolf.

The bed was separate from the rest of the lair, cornered off by a red curtain. Persian silks lined its deep crevices. Dozens of tiny mirrors, sewn into glossy, oriental fabrics, reflected a thousand reflections of her pale little face. And in that endless surge of images, she saw his shadow fall across her shaking shoulders; the half mask looming from the dark like an emotionless demon.

It couldn't be time, surely it couldn't! But he had pulled the blood red curtain across, masking them from the red hues dancing along the lake and the small gondola with the handle too heavy for her to lift, and Raoul.

He reached for her then, suddenly shy and clumsy, but she flinched, turning her cheek, so his fingers slipped uselessly down her chin and came to rest by her collarbone.

He sighed then...a dreadful, ponderous sigh, and gave a light cough.

When Christine turned her head, stiffness pervaded her back, for two long, sinuous fingers were placed on the cleft of a small lever. He watched her impassively, and with another tiny cough, he braced the tiniest pressure on the lever.

The soft, tugging sound of creaking rope lashed against her ears and, as if by clockwork, her fingers drifted up to the buttons lacing the front of her martial dress. The pressure weren't released until the barrage of silk and frill lay on the ground at her feet, as heavy and crumpled as a dead body, and his eyes drank in the sight of her, shivering, in her corset and stockings.

He moved from the lever, which sent a small butterfly fluttering in her stomach, before it was quelled by the chilled touch of his fingers on her arm. She looked past him, and imagined the marble stature of some forgotten goddess hunched over his living quarters. She pretended that the goddess was benevolent, and sensing her plight, had swapped her unfeeling stone flesh for Christine's human skin for this singular act.

The game worked, for awhile, as he trailed his quaking fingers down her bodice and across her chin.

The lines around his mouth twisted, his eyes lit with fire, and he seized her corset with a sudden ferocity that almost took her off her feet.

"Ah..." Her hands settled on his. He snapped his own away, forcing them to his sides like a naughty schoolchild. She felt as if a rock was sinking into her stomach. She was going to have to _direct _him.

"You'll need..." Her voice croaked, and she fought the urge to wince as he glanced up, alarmed. She turned her back on him, bracing both hands on the headboard. Her words seemed distant, as if coming from another place. Maybe they were drawing themselves from the inanimate tongue of the marble goddess. "You'll need to unlace me."

"Oh."

He shifted forward, and she felt the strings relax, fall away from her flesh, her last little piece of constraining sanctuary. It hit the floor in a loose flump, and she found she was frozen, nails digging into the wood of the headboard.

A warm hand snaked around her waist, sailing up the arch of her back and settling on her breast.

Their gasp was a shared one; his a hot tickle on the back of her neck. The heated press of his body enflamed her, and the rough, freezing porcelain of his mask was pushed up on the bridge of her chin as he kissed her neck with a gentleness that stole her breath.

And then he began to sing, soft and tender, beneath the veneers of his breath.

It would have been better if he had struck her. For the music seeped below her marble skin and shattered her stone protector to pieces.

A wailing sob stole itself from her throat. The singing halted. His arms, locked around her waist, entwined fingers and held her there.

"No, don't stop," she whispered, aware of the coldness budding on his lips. She hated herself for it, for tears ran thick and fast down her cheeks, but there was an intake of breath behind her and his thumb began to encircle the space above her belly button. "Please...sing."

And then he began again, puppeting her with the power of his vocal chords, lulling her towards the bed and allowing her to fall into a hazy, engulfing mist she could hide in. Once, it had beckoned her through a mirror. Another time, into his rocking arms. Almost another, into the deep, unexplainable darkness of her father's grave.

She was dimly aware of him shaking, but still the music rolled off his tongue, granting him the strength and old confidence of the shadows he took refuge in. His hands were everywhere, unsure of where to caress or to be rough, but Christine envisioned herself as mindless and as flexible as the dummy that bore her likeness.

And then there were small, mental ripples of pleasure, as he'd granted her before if only by his voice, but now it was matched by the tiny quirks and spasms in her body he'd managed to pull forth from his attentions. An icy fear gripped her chest, for the comforting fog was becoming warm, close, enwrapping her inner pulse in a swaddling cocoon. Above her, his lips half curved at these revelations. This pleased him no doubt, for his melody had taken on a new, voluptuous soulfulness, and she was suddenly bound by it, to him, and it was more then what her senses could take...

He touched her, moved her hands to touch him, and below, a small weeping crept through the pleasure laden mists of her mind.

_Raoul..._

At that, he entered her; swiftly, and with impatience. The pain pierced through her; crying out, she sunk her nails into his back, which was suddenly bare, and she was naked, and there was no more song.

Christine found her voice, fumbling through her memories, and began a small lullaby that was known only to Raoul's nanny. It rang out, simple, pure, and the cries from beneath ebbed to a sniffling quiet.

Erik growled, but she brought her mouth to his ear, and sung twice as sweet.

That night, there was music gliding up to an empty, moonless sky, and the tussle of sheets and rope and blood.


End file.
